Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  There was no noise through the open sash window. They were alone in their own world.

  ‘It will be all right?’ Peter kept his voice low.

  ‘It will.’ Mary gently ran the tips of her fingers through his blond hair, longer now than the last time they were together in Llamroth. She quickly closed her mind to the memory. If they were going to move on, if they were going to make a success of their lives together she had to shut away those feelings. Forgive, she told herself, if not easily forget.

  ‘Now, will you help me to get up? If I stay in this bed much longer I’ll go mad.’

  ‘Nein Leibling. Please.’

  ‘I want to sit out in the yard in the sun. I have to get up. I’m hot, I need a wash and I’m bored. If I have to read any more of Ellen’s Penny Dreadfuls I’ll scream. They’re absolute tripe.’

  ‘You must promise to rest?’

  ‘I will.’

  He helped her to shuffle to the edge of the mattress and stand. Her stomach pressed against him, firm and unyielding and she was glad of the comfort, of the baby safe between them. He put his palm under her chin, lifted her face and kissed her. ‘I have missed you so much, Mary Howarth.’

  ‘Me too … oh me too.’ She revelled in the taste of his lips, again felt the stirring of desire for him. Even at this stage, she smiled inwardly, even being a fat lump, you’re still fancying him. She gently pulled at his hair at the back. ‘You could do with a haircut.’ It felt so good for them to be back on such easy terms.

  ‘Ted has said there is a barber shop on a street in town … Yorkshire Street?’

  Mary grinned. ‘I believe so. It’s called Herr Cutz.’

  ‘At first I did not understand but then Ted explained it to me.’ Peter looked thoughtful. ‘Ted says the man was a prisoner at the camp at the end of the war, was the barber there for a short while, that I might know of him. Perhaps he is the one I remember.’

  ‘You should go to see him?’

  ‘Ja.’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘Mary?’ His voice sounded too loud in the quiet room. He faltered, opened his mouth and then closed it again. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. ‘About Shuttleworth. About Tom.’

  ‘Hush.’ She stopped him. Now wasn’t the right time.

  ‘We should talk.’ He watched her anxiously.

  ‘No. Not here, not now. When we go home.’ She saw it all in his face, the sudden odd mix of apprehension and happiness.

  ‘We will go home?’

  ‘Yes. I think I’ve been away long enough, don’t you?’ Mary took hold of his hand and placed it over her breast.

  ‘Too long.’ He took his hand away from her, laughing. ‘And I think you are the wanton woman, Miss Howarth.’

  ‘Soon to be Mrs Schormann?’ She looked quizzically at him.

  ‘Ja, Liebling. I would like that; I would be a proud man if you were to be Mrs Schormann.’

  She saw the relief on his face. Mary pointed at the mound of her stomach. ‘And I think we should hurry up, don’t you?’

  ‘As soon as we are home we will go to see the minister.’

  ‘I should think we’re in his bad books already for cancelling the wedding. What he’ll say when he sees the size of me now I dread to think.’

  ‘He is a nice man, Mr Willingham, he will not judge. See how kind he has been to me already.’

  ‘I know, love. It was my idea of a bad joke.’

  ‘Ah.’ Peter gave her a wry smile. ‘But still, we will go home soon?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Mary pretended solemn consideration. ‘Yes, I think everybody can manage without us now. So, perhaps by next week we’ll be back in Llamroth. But for now…’ She turned him around and rested her hands on his shoulders. ‘For now, you can get me down those stairs.’

  Peter walked in front of her, her stomach bumping gently on his back.

  In the kitchen he encircled her waist, his hands just about reaching around her, and lowered her onto one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Sit here, I will carry the armchair out to the yard and then you can relax outside in the fresh air.’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine on one of these.’ She patted the edge of the seat she sat on. ‘Put me in that thing.’ She wafted her hand at the armchair. ‘And I’ll never get up.’

  ‘Stay a moment.’

  She waited while he decided where the best place was in the yard. ‘It is good here?’ he asked, looking up towards the sun and rearranging the chair for the tenth time.

  ‘It’s perfect.’ Mary hauled herself up. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘You must rest.’

  ‘I will.’ Mary sat on the wooden chair and shifted uncomfortably. Now she was out of bed she realised how exhausted she actually was. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do not move,’ Peter added sternly. In the kitchen the clock struck six times.

  Mary couldn’t believe how early it still was. ‘I will not move,’ she laughed, imitating him.

  He kissed her. ‘Gut! There is tea in the pot. I will make a cup to you. And I will telephone Gwyneth. I must tell her we will both,’ he stressed the word, ‘be coming home to Llamroth.’

  Mary smiled. ‘She will be pleased.’

  ‘It is what she has been wishing for all these months. So, stay still. I will come back with the tea. And then I have something to tell you. I have news of my own.’

  There was a burnished hard-edged radiance to the morning. The kind that makes you feel glad to be alive, Mary reflected. She sat, nursing the cup of tea between both palms, savouring the stillness around her. Six o’clock in the morning and the sun already warm on her face when she closed her eyes and tilted it upwards to the sky.

  Thank you Tom, she said silently, for watching over Linda, for bringing her back to us. She squeezed her eyes tight and swallowed. And helping me to forgive Peter. It’s what you would have done – did. She believed that now. Tom had known it was Peter who’d killed Frank and kept quiet. ‘Because that was the kind of man you were, Tom,’ she murmured, ‘our happiness meant more to you than anything else.’ She felt a split second of shame and guilt. She held up her hands as though in supplication, the cup between them, and rested her forehead against the warm smooth surface.

  Peter came out of the house and leant on the yard wall next to Mary. He was grinning. ‘Gwyneth sends her love.’

  ‘Go on then,’ Mary said, smiling, ‘tell me your news.’ She waited, unable to read his expression.

  ‘I have a job.’ He took a long slurp of tea, savouring the moment. ‘I have a job at the doctor’s.’

  ‘But…’ Mary’s stomach lurched. ‘Will they let you…?’

  ‘No, not as a doctor,’ Peter said quickly. ‘Not yet anyway. Doctor Grimstead has offered me the job as caretaker for the surgery. The last one has left.’ He squatted down resting his clasped hands on her knees. ‘We will not any more have to do the…’ He tapped his fingers on her leg impatiently. ‘The – what do you call it? The scrapping around for money.’

  ‘Scratting.’ Mary smiled. ‘Scratching around for money.’

  ‘That,’ Peter agreed. He laughed in triumph. ‘Now I can provide for you, for my family.’ He sat back on his heels, watching her reaction.

  The fact that they would have regular money coming in was like a great weight lifted from her shoulders, one that she didn’t even know was there. But then something struck her. ‘You said,’ she spoke slowly, ‘as a doctor “not yet”?’

  ‘That is what is best.’ He beamed at her. ‘Doctor Grimstead has said he will make enquires to see if I will be able to practice again. I have all my certificates and papers. He says that sooner or later there will be new laws that will enable me to do that.’

  In a voice filled with awe, he said, ‘One day, Mary, one day I will become a doctor again.’

  Chapter 88

  ‘And, perhaps, one day you will become a nurse again.’ He stroked the side of her face. ‘I know you must miss that as much as I have missed being a doctor.’

  His concerned remar
k gave her a spasm of regret. She’d fought her father to become a nurse. He’d wanted only that she brought money into the house. She’d loved her job, especially being Matron at Pont y Haven. And she wouldn’t have met Peter if she hadn’t worked in the hospital at the camp. But now she had a whole new life to look forward to.

  ‘I think this baby will be more than enough for me for the time being. One day – who knows?’ She leant forward and, pushing against his shoulder, stood up. ‘I must go to the lavvy.’

  ‘You must go slowly.’ He steadied her but she pulled him with her, laughing.

  All at once she felt a sudden pressure on her bladder. She couldn’t move. ‘Peter?’ Water gushed from between her legs onto the flags. She stared down at her feet, unbelieving. ‘Oh no!’ She doubled over in pain. ‘It’s too early,’ she cried, ‘Peter, it’s too soon.’ She stayed still, trying to catch her breath. ‘Peter, it’s too soon.’

  For a second he froze and then he lifted and carried her into the house, inwardly cursing himself. ‘When I was a doctor at home in Germany, I have delivered many early babies. You must not worry.’ He should have known, should have made plans for this. ‘From what you have told me, it is only three or perhaps four weeks early.’ He laid her on the rug and placed cushions around her, anxious to reassure her. ‘Your waters have broken, Mary, so we must be prepared. We must take off your underclothes, Liebling. Try to lift yourself up.’

  She groaned as she helped him. Her stomach rippled but there was no pain, only a dull ache.

  ‘We must telephone the midwife.’

  His composure stopped her panic. ‘The number’s on the sideboard.’ She pointed upwards, towards it.

  ‘There is pain now?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘It will be fine.’

  ‘It’s too soon. The baby will be too small.’ It was almost a question. She searched his face.

  ‘No, the baby is fine. I think perhaps he – or she,’ he added, ‘seems impatient to be with us. We should try to get you upstairs on the bed.’ She would be more restful there, he thought.

  ‘I’m not moving.’

  He wouldn’t argue with her. ‘Then we must put the towels under you and make you comfortable here.’ He moved around her as he spoke, tucking towels under her buttocks, arranging the cushions.

  ‘Peter!’ The ache increased, travelling down her legs and around her pelvis at the same time. ‘Peter.’ She clutched his hand, her eyes wide with terror.

  ‘Stay calm,’ he said, ‘it will be fine.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I will telephone.’

  ‘Don’t leave me.’ Mary rose up on one elbow.

  ‘I will only be in the hall. Try to relax.’ His prised her fingers gently away from his and pressed on her shoulder until she was lying back on the cushions. ‘Stay still for a moment.’

  When he returned he was carrying a sheet and two pillows. ‘The midwife,’ he said, ‘she will be here soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  As he covered her with the sheet she curled up again, unable to speak until the surge of pain subsided. ‘That was worse.’

  ‘You did well. It will be fine.’ He bent over the fireguard, putting a match to the newspaper in the grate. ‘It is good that it is always set.’ The flames died down and then began to lick around the wood.

  ‘I’m too hot already,’ Mary complained. The sweat was beaded on her top lip and over the bridge of her nose.

  ‘You will need the warmth later. And so will the baby.’ He sat beside her. ‘Stay on your side,’ he said, ‘it will make you feel better.’

  ‘No, I need to walk around.’ Mary flung the sheet away from her and pushed herself into a half crouching, half standing position. Peter didn’t stop her. Supporting her weight he rubbed the small of her back.

  Mary could hear herself grunting. ‘Talk,’ she said eventually, when the next pain receded. ‘Talk to me … anything … say anything.’ She held the weight of her belly in her hands. ‘Where the hell is that midwife?’

  Peter had no answer. He continued to massage Mary’s back. ‘When this baby is born … we will go home?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll go home.’ Mary crouched down. ‘I think it’s coming.’ Pushing Peter to one side, she collapsed onto the floor on her back, hearing herself scream, cutting off the noise by biting down on her lip and burrowing her face in the cushions. The contractions were almost continuous, she couldn’t take much more; the pain was tearing her apart, all there was was agony.

  And then she saw her mother’s face, felt her cool hand on her sweating forehead. Mam? She was wearing the flowery wrap-around pinny she always wore.

  Shush now, Mary. Winifred smiled at her. She smelt the blend of carbolic soap and lavender. You’ll be fine. She was leaning over Mary.

  But then she was gone and it was Peter parting her legs, looking at her. ‘You should push now.’ His voice was low but definite. ‘Mary? Now push.’

  ‘The midwife?’ Mary gripped hold of one of the cushions and pulled it over her face and screamed into it. Soon it became a rhythm of pain and release. With each contraction she felt the increasing fullness between her legs. And then there was a sudden rush of pressure.

  ‘It’s a boy.’ She heard the smile in his voice but the pains increased again.

  Another voice. Not Mam’s, not a voice in her head, another presence following a waft of air.

  ‘Mary? Nurse Patterson. I’m here now.’ The midwife tried to bustle Peter from Mary’s side but he didn’t move.

  ‘The ambulance?’ He questioned her, his old authority emerging.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re on our own. Two of them are already out on calls and the third has mechanical problems, I believe.’ She smiled briskly at Mary. ‘Now mother, let’s see what’s going on here.’ She rifled through her case to find gauze, clamps and scissors. ‘You can go now,’ she said to Peter, preparing the cord.

  ‘I will cut it,’ he said.

  ‘No, father, this is my job.’ She looked askance at him.

  ‘I know how to do this.’ He didn’t explain any more. ‘And, as you say, I am the father.’

  ‘Well!’

  Smiling, carefully taking the scissors, he slowly cut through the umbilical cord between his wife and his child and lifted the baby onto Mary’s chest. She cupped her son’s head.

  Nurse Patterson sniffed, resentful. She started to speak but then Mary panted, ‘I need to push.’

  ‘It’s the placenta.’ The midwife glared at Peter. ‘You will allow me?’

  ‘I will take our son.’ He reached over to the fireguard and pulled down the towel that had been warming.

  Mary only had time to hand the baby to him before the scream erupted from her.

  Nurse Patterson quickly examined her. ‘It’s not the placenta, there’s another baby.’ She looked shocked for a moment and then glanced at Mary and smiled. ‘Well, we didn’t see that coming, did we mother? You’re having twins, my dear. Next contraction, push.’

  Mary threw her head back against the cushions and rode the wave of pain as the baby slid out with a tiny cry.

  ‘It is a girl.’ Peter gazed enthralled at the child in the midwife’s hands.

  Taking advantage of his bewilderment, she laid the baby on Mary and clamped the cord in two places. At the last moment he realized what she was doing and, holding out his hand, he said, ‘Please?’

  Reluctantly handing the scissors to him she shuffled back. ‘Thank you,’ he said, passing the little boy to her. ‘I did this for my son. I need that I do this for my daughter as well. I would never forgive myself if it was otherwise.’ Cutting the lifeline between his wife and children created a bond between himself and the babies.

  Chapter 89

  Mary was laughing and crying at the same time. She held the little girl next to her face before exchanging her daughter for her son so the nurse could wrap her up. Even the temporary separation felt unbearable. ‘Two babies, Peter, we have two babies.’ Both
children were crying now, thin wails that made Peter’s heart feel as though it would burst in his chest with happiness.

  The midwife placed the baby girl next to her brother and went into the scullery, reappearing with a bowl and cloth. ‘Have you thought of names?’ She stood back, smiling at them.

  ‘Meine Geliebte?’ he said. He leaned towards her and stroked the wet strands of hair away from her face and kissed her. Her lips were slick and tasted salty.

  ‘Do you want to choose?’ Mary whispered, her mouth still close to his. ‘Any of your family names?’

  ‘No.’ There was a small sadness in him but he knew what he wanted for his children. ‘No, it would not be the right thing. I would like them to have English names. It will be easier for them.’ He touched the top of their son’s head with the back of his fingers. ‘We know they will have much to deal with.’

  ‘We can protect them from all that,’ Mary said. ‘We will protect them.’ She emphasised her words. ‘Heaven help anyone who crosses us, Peter. We’re a family.’

  He smiled, the words echoed in his mind. ‘We are a family,’ he agreed.

  Mary hesitated. ‘Before, when I did think about it, I thought about Victoria for a girl and Richard if it was a boy?’

  ‘Victoria and Richard it will be.’ And I will love them more than life itself, he thought. And I will always idolise you, Liebling.

  ‘Peter.’ She touched his cheek, her hand falling back on the sheet. She hurt, but right now it was nothing; the pain over the last few hours was pushed aside with a rush of the earlier guilt. ‘You forgive me?’

  ‘Forgive? What is there to forgive?’

  ‘For everything: for leaving you, for not telling you about them.’ She choked on her tears. ‘For not forgiving you right away about … about …Tom.’ She looked down at the babies, both firmly swaddled in towels, their skin mottled and bloody. Exhausted by the effort of being born, their eyes were swollen and closed and their heads flopped forward. ‘And for not resting in bed this morning. What if they’ve been born too soon because of me?’

  ‘There is nothing for me to forgive.’ He dared to add, ‘It was always for you to forgive me.’ There was still that small stab of fear in him.